Tag Archives: derelict

Cheap Wine

Afternoon! I’ve started labeling these posts with the poem titles. I figured that might be easier if anybody wants to search. At some point I may go back and rename others, but I also kind of like the titles those posts have. Apt in their application, though outdated now as I have outgrown that period. We’ll see if it comes back. Growth is not a linear process. Without further ado, please enjoy today’s poem.

Cheap Wine

Red wine drips from my lips,

descending now

in a gentle cascade

like the slow dripping of a broken faucet in an old, old house.

How could I ever forget the taste of copper?

Like a mouthful of pennies;

far too hard to swallow.

Should I try it again?

The wine, my dear?

I didn’t like it the first time;

or the second.

Do you think I should try it again?

I’ve no real recourse.

Not now, anyway.

It is as it will be.

Every day the words are harder to find.

I should think that, one day,

I’ll not have them at all anymore.

…

Do you think I should try the wine again?

Entombed

Good afternoon, everybody! I’ve got another little piece today. Something sadder than the last one. Without further ado, please enjoy.

Entombed

The writing, my dear.

Scrawled there on the wall;

can you see it?

Those old runes…

What could they mean, my darling?

Chicken-scratch, sure.

But what if?

What if there is something to them?

What if it’s about us?

What if it means something?

All of it.

Can you read it?

Interpret for me the symbols of antiquity?

You always were smarter than me.

I am confused.

Something you’re all too familiar with.

It made me angry before.

Now?

A hollow sadness.

Memories and dreams reverberate through old and decrepit halls.

Could you…

Could you help me remember?

What am I doing here?

Where was I going?

Who are you?

Who…

Who am I?

The Plight of the Firstborn Son

Good afternoon, everyone! I have been so incredibly busy that I have hardly had the time to write though it is with a glad heart that I would present to you a new piece written by, and you may have guessed it, yours truly. While I hope that you enjoy it, I do hope that you don’t relate too strongly to the images it paints in your head. That would break my little old heart. Without further ado…

The Plight of the Firstborn Son

The plight of the firstborn son,

that one,

the only one,

his hazel eyes.

Reflections,

refractions,

green and gold and amber…

Nothing quite like him,

you know?

I look into his eyes,

my eyes,

seeing someone I never recognize;

someone I never fully realize.

His eyes, they change in the light.

If only it were,

that you could tell

what he’s supposed to be.

What is he supposed to be?

All alone

inside his head

through stained glass

I peek and peer.

What is this man?

A boy who sits upon a pew?

A man who lies when you already knew?

No pattern,

I don’t recognize…

There’s nothing all around.

Spiders Dare Not Spin Their Webs

It’s a rainy day today. I hope everyone is staying warm and dry. One hell of a season, this winter. One minute cold, next minute less cold but also wet. When will I be able to wear one outfit the whole day without changing? No one may know. Without further ado, please enjoy.

Spiders Dare Not Spin Their Webs

Teardrops fall

on an aged turntable,

one that creaks and winces

at every drop.

Once upon a time,

its exquisite design

and joyous notes

filled halls with envious glances

and raucous applause.

Gilded then,

much like the age,

in silver and gold

now tarnished and old.

Like porcelain and glass,

now precious vinyl degrades

as its uses and users too fade.

I remain by its side,

this sweet and beautiful turntable,

until the drips form stalactites

and I myself subside.

New Year.

Welcome to a new year, friends and all. I’ve not written in quite some time, nearly three weeks to my remembrance. I’ve got something for you that I hope makes up for the absence and rings that funny little new years bell. No more tears, no more fears. I’ll be 23 this year. Everybody hates you when you’re 23. Please enjoy the piece today. Without further ado…

Transience of a Midnight Passerby

One day I wish to wake

from this ever-present, all-encompassing sliver of a dream.

I rest here, without laurels

on remnants of those things left behind

by former residents of the periphery.

It is not that there is nothing here.

It is only that this place is transitory,

it is a placeholder,

a way-station for all those who might find their way.

I lie here,

untethered from the place that comes before and the place that comes in consequence,

on an old bed of straw and linens

expertly and serenely tied to an aging cedar frame.

I’d hoped to find a little more peace here.

Perhaps I’d hoped to divine some meaning from the splinters I’d get sleeping in this worn and tired bed-frame.

Those little wooden splinters tell the story of a thousand years lived in a world so loved that every single lover has died right there by its side

no matter how ancient she might become.

It is only that I lack the knowledge and wisdom required for further reading, lest I might learn how this old cedar frame came to be.

That,

I don’t think,

would be permitted.

Soon I’ll move on,

washing away my time here along with the stains in my bedding and my clothes.

This is nowhere,

certainly not somewhere,

and a place that no one can truly stay,

for only it is no one that lives here

and He I have not been able to find.

Before those wooden halls and vaulted ceilings call me home,

I’ll find one thing so worthy of a King.